The Pale Letter
March 12, 1892. My hands were shaking so badly that I could not steady the pen on the ledger, the ink blurring into black smears that looked like bruises on the paper. I am forty-two years old, a sergeant on the border patrol, and I have spent twenty years keeping the peace in this valley, yet I find myself unable to stop my own fingers from trembling as I write this down. Elara is in the...
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